


Worthy

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, sick!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest heroes can be felled by the most ordinary things. Their strength lies in how they get up once they fall. d’Artagnan learns this the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a two-parter. I started writing this in the middle of a far more urgent project because apparently I couldn’t get the image of d’Artagnan with pneumonia out of my head (and because I’m terrible).
> 
> Warnings: Set after 1.10: Musketeers Don’t Die Easily, so SPOILERS. Entirely show-canon (this will become relevant in part 2). I go into a bit of detail re: the illness, but nothing too graphic.

It starts as a tickle at the back of d’Artagnan’s throat, a persistent dryness that will not go away, no matter how much water he drinks. The weather is beginning to edge into winter: the air is cool and crisp, but it trickles down his throat like melted cheese and stabs like knives in his lungs. When the cough comes, it rattles in him like marbles in a child’s toy; when Athos gives him a third break while sparring so that he can hack and spit, the older Musketeer doesn’t come back.

d’Artagnan weighs hurt and guilt and finally chooses prudence: he chokes down some soup at dinner and crawls into bed.

He wakes up the next morning feeling light-headed, as though he would float into the sky were his clothes not tethering him here. He wonders if he hit his head at some point—he has heard stories of men dying just like this, dizzy one minute then convulsing the next, caught by a bizarre type of apoplexy—but he’s too exhausted to pursue the thought any further. If he should collapse, let him collapse. Even the wet mud of the training field looks inviting.

He manages to complete his duties for the day while avoiding Athos, Porthos and Aramis through a series of god-sent coincidences. It’s only at the end of the day when he sits slumped at the mess table, trying to drum up the energy to make it back to his room, that he feels a heavy hand on the back of his head.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos says. “If you are—” He pauses for a beat, then two, then three. “You need to go get some sleep,” he says finally, “if you wish to reap any kind of benefit out of training.”

d’Artagnan feels inexplicably irritated. He shakes Athos’ hand off his head, even if it makes the world waver at the edges, then rises to his feet. “As you wish, Comte,” he rasps, flinging the words like a weapon he barely knows to use, and half-walks, half-staggers back to his room. He watches from his window as Athos stands still in the middle of the courtyard for a long, long moment, before putting on his hat and walking away. d’Artagnan climbs into bed, shivering.

It’s the last thing he remembers for a while.

* * *

 

“—agnan. _d’Artagnan_. Please, son. Open your eyes. _Open your eyes_ —”

There is a terrible pain in his chest, a feeling as though his ribs have been pried open and all his vital organs replaced with stone. He tries to draw in a deep breath, but the air catches somewhere in his chest, stutters, stops, and d’Artagnan gasps, desperate, reaching up with his whole body for air, just a breath, a measly breath, _please_ —

There are hands everywhere, holding him, turning him, smacking him sharply in the middle of the back until he’s coughing, coughing, coughing—something tears in his throat and drips, warm and viscous, from his lips. And he’s still gasping, wheezing, fighting, because there’s still no breath, no breath to fill the void in his lungs ( _like the bullet hole in his father, pouring blood into the rain that never stops, never stops_ )

“This isn’t working!” he hears Porthos say, over the din in his ears.

And the hand at his back resumes smacking him, and he coughs until he’s retching, but when it stops he finally draws in a breath. It’s small and sharp and hurts almost as much as the coughing, but it feels like a blessing. How he had taken the simple act of drawing breath for granted! If the Lord gives him a second chance at this wretched mortal life, he will never forget to be thankful for every lungful of air that he draws in. He will—

“d’Artagnan?”

He opens his eyes with some difficulty—Aramis is bent over him, shaking like a leaf before an approaching thunderstorm. Aramis slides a hand over his forehead and into his hair, sturdy and sure, and it takes d’Artagnan a moment to realise that it is he who is shaking so badly.

“Save your strength, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, and now his hand is wet and cold, water sliding down d’Artagnan’s face like tears, “much of the battle remains to be fought.”

He wonders about that. He is a soldier who has never gone to war but still spilled blood; he’s taken the lives of fellow Frenchmen in the name of duty to a man and not to God—and here he is in Hell because of it, surely, for it feels like he’s boiling in his skin and needles are being pushed into his nostrils, sawing in and out, and—

“Sleep, d’Artagnan,” says Athos, and he feels, over everything else, Athos’ hand tracing the thick scar that winds around his left chest. “We will be here when you wake up.”

d’Artagnan falls into a twilit space between wakefulness and sleep, too exhausted to keep his eyes open, but much too awash with agony to rest. He hears whispers and the crackle of a fire and the heavy tread of boots against the floor, and he thinks he hears soft sobbing and thinks it might be Constance (and he is familiar with her tears, tasted them when he kissed her cheek one last time). He strains to listen, but only hears Aramis saying in a voice as dead and dry as ashes, “I doubt he’ll survive the night.”

d’Artagnan falls.

* * *

 

He survives the night, then another, then another, until one morning Porthos is pulling his sweat-soaked body into his arms and half-laughing, half-sobbing into his neck. Aramis, who’d kept vigil almost every night, rosary wrapped around his wrist, smiles at him, while Athos refuses to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze.

“Will I be all right?” he asks, with a voice that’s more breath than sound.

“We will take this day by day,” Aramis tells him, and it’s both not an answer at all and exactly the answer he deserves.

He is bedridden for several days; embarrassingly enough, he is too weak to eat on his own, and has to be assisted to perform other menial tasks. The physician and his assistants visit regularly, mix potions and insist on him rubbing strong-smelling salves on his chest. However, the cough persists, and it’s only Porthos relentlessly pounding on his back every morning—even when d’Artagnan is too exhausted to cough, even he’s sobbing from the effort—that ensures he rid his lungs of the muck that half-strangles his every breath.

Three weeks into his recovery, he manages to walk down the corridor outside his room and back again. Porthos breaks open the wine in celebration, and d’Artagnan is so light-headed from trying to catch his breath that he joins the laughter without quite knowing why.

There’s a morning where he pulls a hand through his hair and it comes away with a thick chunk limply wrapped around his fingers. There’s more hair on his pillow, and suddenly d’Artagnan feels a desolation that’s almost crippling in its intensity. “It is to expected after the trials your body has been through,” Aramis tries to assure him, his eyes skipping over d’Artagnan’s bare chest, where he knows almost every one of his ribs is visible. “It will pass once you regain your strength, d’Artagnan. Just eat well and concentrate on getting better.”

“But I will never be what I was,” he says. He doesn’t really need Aramis to confirm this; he knows that he will not draw breath easier than he is doing now for a long time, perhaps never.

Aramis takes d’Artagnan’s hand in both of his—the touch is warm and sure and anchoring, just as it had been when he’d woken in pain, several weeks ago. “No matter what happens,” Aramis, “you are still one of us, and always will be.”

d’Artagnan wants to thank him, but his eyes are burning and his throat is swollen, and so he turns away.

* * *

 

Ten days later, he picks up his rapier and squares off against Henri, the young recruit who’s been sneaking him wine over the last couple of weeks. d’Artagnan’s movements are sure and precise as they have been drilled into him since he was a boy, but there is little strength in his thrusts and parries. Even before his inevitable defeat, he has to turn away to catch his breath, half-coughing, half-wheezing.

Henri hovers, equals parts guilty and terrified, but d’Artagnan waves him away and runs back to his room as fast as he can.

This is—no way to live. He can hardly stay here as a Musketeer when he can’t even last a fight for more than five minutes; the garrison is no place for him—at least, not for now.

The next morning, he’s at Athos’ apartments. The man greets him in person at the door, tousle-haired and stinking of sweat and stale wine. But his eyes are as sharp as ever when he says, “what are you doing here, d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan hands over the pile in his arms—his pauldron, his arbequs, his cape. Athos stares at it and back at d’Artagnan, but does not accept it. “Please tell me you’re not about to do something monumentally stupid,” he says.

“I’m going back to my farm in Gascony,” d’Artagnan says, and he almost wants to laugh at the shock on Athos’ face. “I promise that I will return,” he hastens to add, “someday, perhaps. Perhaps I will have earned the right to be a Musketeer once again, perhaps not. But I will fight by your side regardless, Athos—yours, Porthos’, and Aramis’.”

“You are convalescing rapidly,” Athos says, “If you will just give yourself more time—”

“That is exactly what I’m seeking as well,” d’Artagnan says. “Time.” He thrusts the bundle again. “Athos, please. I have already spoken to Captain Treville, and I could think of no-one better to—”

“I will safeguard these with my life,” Athos says, taking the things from d’Artagnan, the pauldron placed reverently on top, “and I will hold you to your promise. We all will.”

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan steps forward, wonders for a moment if he should take the liberty at all, before Athos reaches out and shakes his hand. “You will come back to us,” he says.

“I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for the amazing response to the first chapter! Hope this conclusion doesn't disappoint. :)
> 
> Again: this is entirely show-canon—we are given precious little information about d’Artagnan’s home/family in the show, and the last time I read the novel was when I was seven, so a lot of the family stuff in this is, well, made-up.

d’Artagnan rides hard for two days, having packed his saddlebags with as much food as he dares burden his horse. The air burns its way down his throat and into his chest but he’s flying, nonetheless; the pain is a small price for freedom. He already feels as though he’s breathing better: no more the stench of sweat, wine, horse manure and wood smoke that’s uniquely Paris. He considers stopping at an inn once, then twice, but the memory of his father’s death is still too fresh a wound—there’ll be plenty of time for pain when he gets to Lupiac; he’ll be of no use if he’s already torn open and bled dry before he gets there.

He stops when the sun is directly overhead, burning the back of his neck. He ties his horse to a tree and allows it to graze while he settles down for lunch under the shade of the branches. He spreads an old rug that Constance had given him when he’d first taken lodging at her house ( _my husband’s house_ , she’d correct him sternly, and his heart skips a beat at the memory). He likes to think that he keeps it because it smells of her, but really, it only ever smells of dust and soap and his own sweat, and sticking his nose in it, while never a good idea, only makes him cough painfully these days. He dreams, sometimes, that he is one of those heroes in the stories that Fleur reads to Constance, sweeping in to save the fair damsel from the beast that’s held her in its grasp, but Constance has hardly ever needed his saving more than he needed hers. As for Bonacieux, well—the few times d’Artagnan has seen him on the street, there’s a scar across the bridge of his nose and his lips quiver in mousy indignation; he only feels pity and disgust for the man.

He bites into an apple while sullenly considering the draught that the physician had pressed upon him. It’s supposed to help him clear his lungs, but only burns his insides and tastes like a donkey’s behind. He scowls, then turns the bottle over and lets the vile liquid sink into the ground. He can almost hear Athos’ voice in his head, low and crisp and curling at the corners like an autumn leaf: _that was childish of you, d’Artagnan_. It only makes him smile, and for a few seconds, he even forgets why he left.

He reaches Lupiac before nightfall on the second day—he has had his fill of the countryside air by this time, and his chest aches as he tries not to cough. He slows his horse to a steady trot through familiar streets—some of the passersby and natives stop and stare at this ragged man, wild-haired and gaunt, sword gently bouncing against his horse’s hide, two days’ worth of dirt and leaves caught underneath his boots and in his hair. Others walk on like he doesn’t exist; d’Artagnan wonders, with no little panic, if war and illness has changed him so thoroughly that he’s a stranger in his own home.

The blacksmith’s wife—lord, he can’t remember her name—catches his eye and smiles warmly at him. Somehow that only makes him feel worse.

He finds himself at his old farm without quite remembering how he got there. His house is still standing, if a burnt husk of what it used to be; the barn and the coop are nothing more than piles of rubble, and the well has been filled in. The land, so carefully tended to by his father over decades, is nothing but wretched, broken earth now, overgrown with scraggly weeds. The sight is far beyond sobering—it is worse than anything he’d imagined, and it aches in his chest far more fiercely than his weak lungs.

d’Artagnan remembers stories of lost cattle—cows that have strayed away, only to be found days later, their corpses picked clean of all flesh. He wonders if he’s the animal or the cowherd here: he’s come back to the barren carcass of what was once his home without realising for _months_ what he had truly lost. And yet—he feels picked clean and hollow himself, as though he’s lost vital parts of himself along the way: one that died with his father, one that remains with Constance, one that burned along with his home, one that the illness took away from him, and one that beats with his brothers back in Paris.

d’Artagnan bows his head and cries.

It is soon night time, and d’Artagnan is still taking his increasingly restless horse around the farm, a little lost, exhausted, and unsure of where to go next. He hears a familiar voice then, calling out: “Charles! Charles, is that you?”

He turns, and it’s his uncle, seated on a horse himself, squinting from across the barren field. “Answer me, boy!” he says again, and now d’Artagnan notices the long shape of a musket in his other hand.

“Yes,” he croaks, urging his horse closer. He watches his uncle slowly lower the gun, and then break into a relieved smile.

“Well, it’s about time, boy,” he says.

* * *

 

Pierre, his little cousin, is waiting when they arrive at his uncle’s house; he’s brandishing an old wooden sword and points it towards d’Artagnan with a hearty cry. His father rolls his eyes. “Get inside before you startle the horses into throwing us off,” he says, and with a suspicious glare at d’Artagnan and another mighty howl, he runs back inside the house.

“Uncle, you have to understand what—” d’Artagnan starts as they’re taking care of the horses, but the man only shakes his head.

“You can tell me what happened after you’ve rested and had something to eat,” he says, and adds after a brief pause, “and when you don’t look like you’re three steps out of a grave.”

His aunt, Francoise, meets him at the door. There’s a limp to her step and a long scar under her jaw that he’s never seen before, but her smile is as bright and wide as ever when she sees him. “Oh, Charles,” she says, gathering him into her arms, and she smells of bread and hay and _home_ —so much so that d’Artagnan thinks he’s going to start crying again. “Whatever _happened_ to you? You look—you look half of what I saw you last year!”

It’s then that he realises that he’s damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his face, and that he’s shaking. He gently extricates himself from her arms, even as his uncle pushes past her and says, “Let the poor boy in, Francoise, before you start interrogating him.”

He’s inside and bundled next to the fireplace before he realises what’s happening; a steaming bowl of meaty stew is pushed into his hands, and d’Artagnan closes his eyes, letting the warmth soak into his skin.

“Haven’t heard from you in months,” his uncle says. “Thought you were dead, like your father. If a sensible man like him could get killed out there, then I have to imagine that you would be reckless enough to throw yourself on somebody’s sword in half the time.”

“Robert!” Francoise chides, but d’Artagnan says, “I’m sorry. I’m—I’ve been ill.”

His uncle sighs. “That much, at least, is apparent.” He hangs their cloaks near the fire and stalks into another room.

“Oh, Charles.” She places a gentle, calloused hand on his cheek, and d’Artagnan finds himself leaning into the touch. “Alone in Paris, with no family, no income—we didn’t want this for you. We would’ve welcomed you into our home at any time, you know that.”

“I know.” The stew is beginning to congeal in the bowl as it begins to cool; he shivers. “When the—when the farm burned—did anybody—were there any—”

“Survivors?” There’s a sharpness to her voice now that makes him look up at her. “There was only one death: Rene, your father’s secretary. A tragic end to a good man—he ran the farm well in yours and Alexander’s absence.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan pushes through a lump in his throat. “He was a good man, a really good man—”

Francoise gently takes the bowl out of his numb hands and nudges his shoulder. “You are exhausted and fevered, Charles; we will deal with all of this in the morning.” She helps him get to his feet; the world sways, or maybe he’s swaying with it, and perhaps he’ll fall and tumble into a world where he’s not a stranger both at home and away from it—

He’s guided into a bed and Francoise is hushing him, making soothing sounds that follow him into his dreams as the roar of a fire that burns down his universe.

* * *

 

The fever returns, burning through him with a ferocity that keeps him in bed for nearly four days. He can almost hear Aramis chiding him for journeying so hard and fast while still recovering; Francoise is sure it’s the shock of coming home to see it utterly destroyed; Robert throws his hands up, muttering about the ‘mysteries of our bodies’, while Pierre is content to regularly tip-toe into his room, poke him with a stick until he shifts or groans, and then run out, giggling.

When the fever breaks on the fifth morning, d’Artagnan stumbles out of bed, determined not to spend another moment in that thrice-damned thing. Francoise is less than pleased to see him enter the kitchen half-hacking his lungs out, but hands him a cup of steaming broth without a word.

d’Artagnan decides to be honest—he tells his aunt and uncle of the manner of his father’s death, and the quiet, understated ceremony with which he’d buried the body in a small cemetery near the inn where he’d breathed his last. He tells them of his mission to go to Paris to duel Athos to the death; he cannot quite give voice to the anger that blinded him then, or to the shame that cripples him just as much now, but he knows that they understand anyway. They are proud to learn that he was commissioned into the King’s Musketeers; Francoise even cuffs his head playfully for not writing to them immediately.

He tells them that he killed LaBarge, and their faces darken. “The man was the devil,” Robert says, fiercely.

“He came claiming to do the King’s work, and instead only terrorised us.” Francoise smiles a bitter, faraway smile, tracing the scar that runs under chin. “He has left a wound in this country, Charles, and it festers and draws infection, even now.”

“Bandits,” Robert clarifies. “Even now, we are besieged by men who seek to take what we simply cannot afford to lose anymore—by force.”

d’Artagnan offers to help, but Francoise only smiles and offers him more bread.

He finds himself regaining more and more strength as the days go by; he runs everyday, farther and farther, testing himself by seeing how far he can get before his chest burns enough that his vision dims and he’s crouched over, spitting. He has never had much aptitude for farmwork, but he knows what needs to be done, and helps out however he can. In the long evenings, he pulls out his rapier in the relative warmth of the barn, practising his stances and movements until he’s sweating and the handle of the sword is digging grooves into his skin. Pierre watches him sometimes, delighted and swearing that he’ll grow up to best d’Artagnan in a real duel someday, and sometimes it’s Francoise, but she never says anything: only looks at him with a peculiar kind of sorrow.

Camille, beautiful, lithe Camille, daughter of the town physician, visits one day, and d’Artagnan has hardly any time to ponder how she’s grown in the last year before they’re kissing behind the barn, him unlacing her corset with trembling fingers while she tugs at his breeches. “Charles,” she says into his mouth, “ _Charles_ —” and his heart is pounding hard enough to bruise behind his ribs and his breath comes in short, aching pants and catches in his chest and—

—he coughs. It’s an unrelenting monster that bubbles up his throat until he’s turning to the side, hacking and spitting and hacking all over again. Camille hovers uncertainly, half-concerned, half-offended, before she gathers her skirts and runs away. When the coughing fit passes, d’Artagnan lies in the hay, exhausted and not a little humiliated.

Pierre finds him like that a half-hour later. “Mother says that a dinner befitting a mighty Musketeer has been prepared,” he says, and adds with a grin, “you’d better come in before I finish it all.” He jabs d’Artagnan in the thigh with his wooden sword, hard, then runs back inside, laughing.

d’Artagnan supposes he deserved that.

* * *

 

Two months later, when the bandits attack (as he knew they would), d’Artagnan is ready.

He’s skewered one of them through the heart even before they realise that he’s there; in the time that it takes for him to withdraw his sword from one man’s corpse, he’s thrown his dagger into the chest of another. Soon he’s engaged in a vicious fight; it is three men against one, but he was trained as a Musketeer, and he supposes that evens the odds.

He’s killed one and pinned underneath the other, and he can see the third one raise his sword, ready to slice through d’Artagnan’s neck. He is numb with the rush of the battle and with the effort of keeping the bandit on his chest from driving a dagger through his heart—which is why he barely notices when a musket shot rings through the air. His assailant, however, definitely notices as his comrade falls face-first to the ground, a bloody hole through his throat. He makes to run away, but is stopped by a second shot that rips through his chest and fells him.

d’Artagnan jumps to his feet, panting harshly, weakened muscles quivering, as he looks to the direction of the shots, expecting more enemies. However, he only sees three men on horses—three men that he, perhaps, knows better than he knows himself.

“What are you doing here?” he calls, half-disbelieving, half-delighted.

“I’m offended!” Aramis says, holding a hand over his heart.

“What, you think you’re the only Musketeer who can go on a holiday?” Porthos says, and grins.

“Clearly, your convalescence has been a raging success for you to kill yourself anyway by fighting five men at once,” Athos says, dryly, but a smile quirks the edges of his lips.

“I had to do it,” d’Artagnan says simply, as the other three dismount. They stand side-by-side in silence, before Porthos breaks it with a loud laugh that seems to bubble up from somewhere deep within him. d’Artagnan finds himself joining in, and the four men move in and clasp each others’ shoulders tighter than they have ever before.

Athos goes back to his horse while Aramis asks, “So can we expect you at the garrison soon? I mean,” he waves a hand, “illness or no illness, your swordplay has become inexcusably rusty.”

“I’d like to contest that observation,” d’Artagnan challenges with a grin, one hand resting on the hilt of his rapier.

“Oh, watch out, Aramis, he might cough at us,” Porthos says, chuckling.

Meanwhile, Athos has returned, and he has d’Artagnan’s pauldron in his hands. d’Artagnan blanches and steps back almost instinctively. “Athos,” he says, “I don’t think—I don’t know if I’m ready—”

“You were a Musketeer at heart long before you received your commission,” Athos says, “and you always will be.” He moves forward, straps the pauldron to d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and for a moment, d’Artagnan is transported to that muddy field, to what seems like a hundred years ago, when he was hurting and overwhelmed and so incredibly, terribly _raw_. Now, though, he only feels a grounding sense of surety—that gaining one family doesn’t necessarily mean that he loses the other.

Instinctively, he throws his arms around Athos, burying his face in his neck. For a moment, Athos is stiff, but he returns the embrace, his grip strong and sure and warm, and d’Artagnan feels he hasn’t breathed easier than this in years.

**_Finis_ **


End file.
